


Sick Days

by writer1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Caring John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misuse of kitchen appliances, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic, Swordfighting - sort of, Teasing, Worried John Watson, can be read as friendly or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer1/pseuds/writer1
Summary: Sherlock is ill and John must nurse him back to health.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 65





	Sick Days

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a sickfic, so hopefully, I've done it justice. It's short and hopefully sweet. All errors are my own. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

It was cold. Damn cold. Everyone in the room left puffs of condensation before them as we stood around the body of a very naked, very dead man. The poor sod was spread out like a star, his face and the room decorated with the crimson fingerpaintings of his own blood. The psycho who did this had carved a hole from the man’s belly and used it as a paint pot. Sherlock was ecstatic. 

Speaking of excitement, Lestrade and I absorbed the murder-induced adrenaline high Sherlock was giving out, and we, also, were firing on all cylinders following each clue without fail. As it happens, Sherlock’s happiness was, strangely enough, addictive. And the world’s only consulting detective had spectacular form this evening. His razor-sharp brain sliced through the killer’s choices of location, timing, means, weapon, victim, and particular grotesque style in minutes, leaving Lestrade with such a narrow field to work with that I figured even a green first-year detective could make the appropriate arrest within a couple of days. 

But as a doctor, I was noticing things that the rest of the highly-trained professionals weren’t. My eyes, instead of being on the artistic blood decor or the deceased paint pot, were on Sherlock Holmes. More specifically, the way he occasionally grimaced and rubbed at his neck just under his jaw. Or the constant clearing of his throat and the hoarseness of his voice as he did his best to rattle off everything he saw and his deductions. I frowned, knowing that even though the night’s work would be a complete success, I was in for a hell of a week with a very sick genius.

All things considered, we made it back to Baker Street without incident except my worry that Sherlock was unusually quiet. Even as we entered the sitting room, my friend moved slowly over to his chair and curled his long thin body up into a ball, closing his eyes and ignoring me completely. This wasn’t anything unusual. Sherlock had always been prone to disappearing into his mind palace or being sucked into the void of thought when there were too many options to what should be, according to him, a simple murder. But I could tell he wasn’t feeling well and that his transport, amazingly resilient given its owner’s consistent maltreatment, was responding in kind.

Deciding to give him a minute alone, I moved to the kitchen and attempted to make tea. The task shouldn’t be difficult, but the fact that a congealed slime covered the counter and the kettle smelled of sewage was a bit concerning. So I boiled water in a pan and grabbed a spare teapot from one of the lower cabinets, the ones Sherlock never noticed. After pouring the tea and setting up the tea tray, I moved into the sitting room to find Sherlock hadn’t moved. Pursing my lips in concern, I leaned over him to do a brief examination. 

_Breathing pace is normal, although there’s a slight wheeze._ _His hair is wet with sweat. His temperature is warm. Too warm, considering we’ve just come in from nearly freezing weather. Signs point to more than just a sore throat. Will likely need antibiotics._

Sherlock didn’t move as I pushed the dark curls from his overheated face. It’s worrying but nothing I couldn’t handle. Not yet anyway. Actually, it’s better that he be unconscious because I knew, the moment he woke up, there would be hell to pay. But, fool that I was, I gently shook his shoulder until his eyes cracked open.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up you git. I’ve made tea and you’re going to drink it.”

Said tea sat on the table near the fireplace. It was not our usual Earl Gray and Lapsang Souchong mix but a Chamomile and Lemon with a large dollop of honey, for his throat. Said man hissed out a negative response to my prodding but grudgingly complied, slowly unfolding his long arms and legs until he sat upright enough in the chair to hold his cup without it tipping. 

“John,” he hissed from a hoarse and pained throat, “you need to toss the kettle before Mrs. Hudson finds out I boiled excrement in it.”

My face twisted in disgust but for the most part, I was oddly unaffected, “Yes, I already saw,” I paused, then, “Not sure I want to know, but why were you boiling your own poo?”

Sherlock shook his head, “‘s not mine. I’m not regular enough to produce the volume I needed.”

“I see.”

“But I do thank you for your contribution, Doctor.”

I sputtered and looked at him aghast, but the infuriating man merely grunted, hiding his smile behind his teacup. Deciding not to delve into whether or not the excrement was or was not my own, and more disturbing, how Sherlock might have gotten hold of it, I instead decided to excuse myself long enough to gather my medical bag from my room. Upon returning, Sherlock frowned at first the bag as I sat it on the floor before me, and then at me.

“What are you doing, John?”

Pausing my rifling through the bag, I looked up at the sourfaced man and smiled, “You’re a detective. Figure it out.”

Not waiting for a reply (I could feel his sarcastic look anyway) I continued my search and finally produced for my friend a bottle of paracetamol, some generic throat lozenges, and a thermometer. 

“This will have to do until I can get to the clinic.”

“What’s at the clinic?” Sherlock croaked.

“Drugs,” I smiled sympathetically, “For you.”

“I don’t need drugs.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean. I’m not sick.”

“Says the frog.”

“Don’t be boring, John. It’s a sore throat. This tea and one of your medical candies should do the trick,” he took another sip of his tea and nodded once, “See, I’ll be right as rain come morning.”

I was right. Of course, I was right. I’m always right. At least when it came to medicine and illness. So instead of arguing, I decided to take a safer route, for now at least, so that I could still get my way and Sherlock wouldn’t be such a pain. I negotiated.

“Right, I’ll tell you what. You let me play doctor,” Sherlock’s eyes darted up, “within reason, and I promise not to hover unnecessarily, no matter how sick you become.”

There’s a brief contemplative silence where I knew my friend was thinking of the possible merits and pitfalls for such an agreement; Sherlock having his own personal doctor, if need be, so he could continue the work was good -- but then me constantly pumping him full of boring over-the-counter drugs and prodding him with my temperature stick didn’t seem too appealing.

The thin man’s expression verified my own deduction but the full effect was ruined by an unexpected sneeze and a rough and phlegm-filled cough. I quickly moved across the room to fetch a box of tissues Sherlock had been using to test the solubility of benzoic acid with organic solvents. That’s what his notes said anyway. 

“Fine,” Sherlock said through his tissue, which he pulled away and eyed questionably, “You can play doctor, John, but I already told you. It’ll go away. And I intend to keep working.”

“Of course. Whatever you say.”

My quick agreement made the detective eye me next, quite suspiciously, but he dutifully sat forward as I held out the thermometer and allowed me to slide it into his mouth.

“John?” he said around the instrument.

“Yes.”

“Would you make me another cup of tea? Like that one?” he asked, pointing at his cup.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

*****

The evening passed per usual. Me enjoying my tea while Sherlock played one of his latest compositions, occasionally adding a bit here and there. Yes, everything seemed fine. It wasn’t until the next morning when I came downstairs that I had the feeling something was off. For one, Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed. This wasn’t always the case as the detective had no fear of nudity, especially his own, nor personal space or privacy, mostly in regard to me. So the brilliant man was either keeping a secret, or something was wrong. 

“Sherlock?” I tapped lightly on the door, giving him a minute if need be. The lack of response both irked and worried me so I presumed to open the door and poke my head in. And it was horrible. Sherlock looked a mess. Without even entering, I could sense the sickness that congested the room. I quickly doubled back to grab my bag and stopped by the bathroom to snag a wet flannel. Settling myself on the edge of the bed, I peeled the sheets from his wet skin and proceeded to fret at the amount of heat radiating from his frail frame.

My friend didn’t wake as I stripped him of everything but his pants and ran the cold flannel over his skin, effectively cleaning the sweat and cooling his overheated flesh in one go. Deciding that wasn’t enough, I trapped the thermometer under his armpit and went back to the kitchen for a picture of cold water and another wet flannel. 

Upon my return, I checked the instrument and frowned. 38.4 degrees celsius. With a soft hand, I gently pushed the damp black curls and laid the cold compress over his forehead. Finally, Sherlock made a noise, something like a wounded animal, and his eyes slid open to peek at me. 

“Joooh.”

The simple word that vaguely resembled my name sounded so painful to utter that I touched my own throat in sympathy. 

“Sherlock. All right?”

It was a stupid question, as questions of this matter go, but I felt the need to get verification because it’s Sherlock -- especially because it’s Sherlock -- and I was glad I did so when the foolish detective dropped an arm to the side of the bed and weakly gripped at it in an attempt to pull himself up. I immediately placed my hand over his chest and pressed him back down. 

“Not so fast. Let’s take a minute to wake up and get your bearings, yeah?”

Sherlock fidgeted and blinked up at me, “John -” this time he got the whole word out but a nasty wheeze escaped as well.

“Right. You sound like you’re getting better already.” 

The poor man was so exhausted I didn’t get a snarky reply and, feeling just a little bad for him, I leaned over and replaced the flannel on his head causing a shiver to run over his thin frame. I then gripped him under the arms and dragged him up until he sat perched against his pillow and the headboard. 

“Sherlock, I need you to take these pills and drink some water. Think you can handle that?”

There was the typical under-the-breath grumbling I’d come to expect from my friend, something about ‘ridiculous fussing’ and 'traitorous body’, but he thankfully complied, even going as far as allowing me to help hold the glass while he drank half its contents. I had half a mind to mention how much he didn’t need me, you know, feeding him drugs and nursing his poor mistreated transport back to health, but I knew not to poke the bear. Not just yet, anyway. 

I spent another twenty minutes wetting and rubbing his hot skin with the flannel, attempting to cool him down as much as possible until the paracetamol kicked in. Eventually, Sherlock smirked then coughed a racking painful cough making me pause my ministrations.

“All right?”

“Mm,” he grunted and settled back in exhaustion, still eyeing me with mirth, “You’re enjoying this.”

“Not in the way you’d think.”

“Tease.” Sherlock smiled.

“Ah, but you aren’t interested in such pedestrian dalliances. Unless the flannel is doing it for you,” I held up the wet cloth and quirked my lips at my patient, “It is rather nice. Soft to the touch and smells of detergent.”

“Yes, but I don’t remember you getting my lower body,” he rasped with a wink, “Hate for you to miss a spot.”

I blinked in bewilderment for a moment then shook my head, “Now who’s the tease?” 

My reply was chased with a playful smile which seemed to make Sherlock relax. Surely this wasn’t Sherlock flirting with me. And if it was, well . . . then the poor man was surely suffering from delirium which means things were worse off than what I’d thought. Letting the thought drift from my head, I wet the flannels one more time and placed them on my friend.

“Sherlock, I’m going to run downstairs and fetch Mrs. Hudson so she can keep you company while I run out to the shop and the clinic. Think you can not be a complete ass while I’m gone?”

The detective shrugged, which was good enough for me, and closed his eyes in dismissal. So, being a good friend and doctor, I asked Mrs. Hudson to torture Sherlock with as much trivial conversation as she could until I returned and then I headed out into the cold for soup and medication. 

*****

My return could be considered heroic, at least to Mrs. Hudson who I found wrangling a half-naked Sherlock Holmes with a broom as he moved at a snail’s pace through the flat holding his phone in one hand and plunger in the other.

“Young man, if you don’t return to your room right this second, you’ll bee seeing the rough side of my hand!” 

“No,” Sherlock waved the plunger at his landlady as he whisper-talked into the phone, “it wasn’t an accident, he was pushed. Check CCTV in the area.”

“You’re far too sick to be working anyway,” the older woman frowned looking absolutely sullen, “And what you’ve done to my kettle. Unsanitary!” she cried, gripping the broom tightly.

Deciding to put her out of her misery, I entered the room and held out the bags, “Switch?”

“Oh, too right,” she said thrusting the broom at me and disappearing into the kitchen. 

Sherlock gave no hint he knew I had arrived back, so I quickly stepped up and snatched the phone from his hands and moved back toward the door.

“Hello . . . Lestrade?” I batted Sherlock back with the broom, “Yeah, I’m good, ta. I’m afraid Sherlock isn’t well enough to go out right now,” at this, the detective brandished his plunger and I deflected with a swing of my own weapon, “but you can email all the details to him and I’m sure he’d be happy to take a look. Yeah, uh-huh, okay. Yep, talk to you later.”

“Rude,” came the rasped charge.

“Says the man running through the flat in nothing but his pants and a pair of sunglasses and attacking his landlady with a plunger,” I paused, “Why do you have that anyway?”

“She insisted on following me to the bathroom,” he frowned, “It made me uncomfortable. I can’t go with someone watching. And besides, she was being annoying.”

I sighed heavily, so heavily that even the genius detective I stood across from could get the hint that he was behaving like a child. “And the sunglasses?”

“The light hurts my eyes.”

“Right . . . it’s been a couple of hours, so let’s get some food and some more medication in you -- and maybe some clothes, yeah? I also got something to numb your throat.”

Not sticking around for an argument, I headed into the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson triple-bagging the kettle. “Oh John, can you believe what he did to my kettle? This is the third one this month I’ve had to bin. The silly man, putting such unsavory things in the appliances.” She then turned wild and worried eyes to scan the room. “Oh dear, I haven’t checked the rest of the kitchen yet. Do you suppose there’s more?”

I don’t mention how frequently have that exact same fear, “No need to worry, er, too much. I can do that later. Right now, you can call it a day while I get Sherlock back into bed and resting again. As much as I loathe his experiments, I would rather have him doing that than puttering about the flat like an angry lung-hacking zombie.”

We both peered into the sitting room where Sherlock was sifting through a stack of papers and typing on my laptop. I wasn’t sure if Lestrade had emailed me the details of the case or if Sherlock had accessed his own, considering he always forgot he had his own computer. Regardless, Sherlock was determined to work, so I thanked Mrs. Hudson and walked over to retrieve the laptop from the newly disgruntled detective and used it to lead him to his bedroom. Once both man and machine were firmly settled on the bed, I fetched a fresh glass of water, more drugs, and a fresh sheet. 

“Now, I’m going to warm up some soup for you. You will eat it all, without a fuss, and then I’m going to take your temperature again and . . . depending on how things look, you’ll hopefully be able to get back to work soon.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that, sounding like a fifty-year chain-smoker, but I know what will happen if you surge through a case, barely able to focus much less talk, and then collapsing back at the flat looking like something on Molly’s slab.”

“Pshah, you’re so dramatic John.”

“Pot and kettle.”

“So you admit you’re full of shit?” the detective looked up earnestly.

I couldn’t help but laugh. The smart ass. 

The next few days continued in about the same way; the worst of his sickness hitting Sherlock first thing in the morning and late at night when his body began to rest and me calling off work to nurse him through. And although I had some serious misgivings about it, my time spent with Sherlock hadn’t been too awful. 

It’s on the evening of day three that I felt something had changed between us. Normally, I would do my doctorly duties (reduced to the bare minimum now), set my friend up with the necessary things he required for the work, and then disappear into the sitting room, silently listening through the open door as he did his thing. He seemed to be getting better and although I still had plenty of sick days, I had planned on taking myself back to work in the morning. But tonight happened to be a bad night as Sherlock’s temperature spiked again, very suddenly, and dropped the detective quite alarmingly. 

I might not have known if it weren’t for the sound of a loud thump, a pained groan, and the sight of long, pale appendages flapping uselessly over the wood floor just in the doorway. And if I weren’t so worried, given Sherlock’s flush and sweaty face and the dangerous wheezing coming from him, I might have chastised him for being such a drama queen.

With a legitimate fear, I once again got him settled on the bed, stripped off, and began covering him with cold compresses to get his fever down. After several attempts, I finally forced some antibiotics down him and sat at his bedside until he seemed to have fallen asleep. With a worried sigh, I pushed a thick curl from his face and listened to him breathing, able to count his ribs as his stomach rose and fell. 

“You idiot. You ridiculous, malnourished, overworked, obstinate, willfully cantankerous idiot. You’re supposed to be getting better, not worse. You’re actually making me look bad here,” I ran my fingers over his burning-hot skin gently, moving down to cup his cheek. “I need you to get better Sherlock. Please get better. It kills me to see you like this.” 

For my efforts, I received a gargled moan and a snort. Charming. With a half-smile, I ran my thumb over his cheek one last time and stood to get my medical bag when a hand caught my wrist.

“Jo-on.”

It was barely a whisper but it still made me happy enough to know Sherlock was conscious and able to talk. I kneeled down next to the bed, face-level with him.

“Hey, you had a bit of a relapse.”

The detective smiled, “Been there.”

I smiled in return. “Glad to see you’re okay,” I glanced at the door then back to him, “I was just going to get my medical bag. Has all my goodies in it.”

“Mmm, good.”

“Right. I’ll be right back.” 

Again I stood to leave but Sherlock didn’t let go of my wrist. I tugged at it, surprised at how much strength he had to hold tight and not let go by now. Pained blue eyes gazed up at me and his lips moved, barely making a sound. I again sat at the edge of the bed and leaned over him.

“What was that? Sherlock, I can’t hear you.”

There was a hiss and a gurgle as Sherlock took a breath, and then, “Stay. Don’t leave me alone.”

I sat up, slightly startled at the admission and the unusually emotional request. Shaking my head, I leaned back toward him and ran my fingers through his thick hair, “I won’t. I would never leave you, Sherlock, not unless you asked me to.”

His lips tilted up slightly, “Won’t.”

Another tug pulled at my wrist and I tilted my head in question. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Mm, stay with me. Here.”

My eyebrows shot up, “In your bed? With you? While you’re sick?”

A nod was my acknowledgement. And while, once upon a time, I’d contemplated the occasional scenario of me and Sherlock sharing more than just the work, goofy smiles, snarky remarks, and a meal or two, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined snuggling up to the gangly man like a furnace in the middle of winter. Besides, given his current state, wouldn’t this be considered taking advantage? 

“Quit thinking,” he raised a shaking rail-thin arm, “come here.”

I hesitated further, “Sherlock, you’re really not feeling well and me being so close won’t exactly help bring your temperature down, much less make you feel any better, mentally or physically, and I really should -”

“Please.”

And with a defeated sigh, I stood, shrugged down to my socks, undershirt, and pants and climbed onto the bed to lie next to the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. Neither of us spoke nor moved for several minutes, not until Sherlock smiled, grunted, and reached up to touch my hair.

“It does . . . make me feel better . . . with you here.”

I smiled back, not really wanting to question either of our actions anymore tonight. Whatever happened, happened, and I was more than content with the fact that Sherlock wanted me here.

“You’re an idiot.”

The detective wheezed in place of a proper laugh, “Mmm. Tease.”


End file.
